


Worried

by MWDG



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Other, POV First Person, that's about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-16 22:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19326988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MWDG/pseuds/MWDG
Summary: A very short piece written in first person addressing part of the moral conundrum that is Barry. The narrator processes Barry's deeds; the contradiction between a loved one and a killer. What does forgiving his actions mean?





	1. Chapter 1

        I’m attracted to a dangerous man with a strange and worried face. His frame is tall and slender, that which blackens the door. That which is felt but not seen. He’s here with me now, he came home late, our eyes are adjusted to the dark. Shadows jutting across his face, he tells me what he’s done even if I don’t want to hear it, and he doesn’t want to tell me. The room is quiet and intimate, I can hear blood rush in my ears. He speaks in as few words as possible.  
I wish I hated him. I wish I didn’t want him. He’s as still as stone, he doesn’t look at me. I never see the man he describes. I try to imagine a killer, killing hands, his brow dark, a line cutting through his forehead. His eyes cold. I can’t. His body seems to disappear. He looks no more like a monolith, but just like a skinny man in a grey hoodie sitting on the edge of my bed. I swallow and approach. I kneel before him, and carefully lift his arms around me, and hold him around the middle. I rest my head against his chest and rub a small circle in his back, as though I’m unwinding him. As if he’ll soften beneath my palm. Something reduces in him in clicks, I feel him hold me back, he breathes again. I feel him rest his cheek on the top of my head. I can tell he wishes I would've said something. I could've told him what he wanted to hear, or I could've told him the truth, or I could've told him a story. That he’s a good person.                That he deserves to live a good life. Or that he’s deeply flawed. That he deserves to die. Worst of all, that I forgive him for all of it, all because I care deeply about him. I could've told him that it doesn’t matter to me, and that I don’t smell blood on him. As distinct as cologne, when he enters a room I smell it before he even gets to me.

        I get off my knees and I sit beside him on the bed.  
       “I can’t tell you what you want to hear,” I say.  
        He nods.  
       “I’m sorry.” I say.  
       “It’s ok.” He says. His voice is far away.  
        I look at him for a long time, but he doesn’t look at me.  
       “Let’s pretend, ok?” I say lightly, like an accomplice; I have a childish hope that I can love all his deeds away. I lean close to him so my face is cradled in his neck. I kiss carefully behind his ear. I kiss his mouth, small, asking kisses, and responds eagerly. I feel him returning from some place. He pulls away slowly, without losing the closeness, still lost in the pleasant warmth of proximity. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me with finality. He holds me like this for a moment, then lets go and I feel chilly.

        He leaves. He goes to the bathroom, and I hear him turn the shower on. He brushes his teeth. I sit still. My skin feels hardened. When we’re done pretending, I feel wide awake; not afraid, but deeply uncomfortable. My neck feels stiff, and my lips dry. While the shower goes, I replay the moment over and over, my eyes track over centimeters of his skin as if I'm scanning a map. I think about the mechanical kiss. Perhaps he softened but I don’t remember finding him comfortable.


	2. Chapter 2

The more I sit the more I think.

My hands are limp next to me, I’ve forgotten they exist and yet I can feel my own skeleton pressing against my skin like it wants out.

He told me what he did. In as few words as possible. I said sorry. I pulled his arms around me. I took his hands and placed them on my body. I kissed him. I wanted him to kiss me.

I smell his soap. I smell what he’s washing off of him. I look long at the bathroom door, and I forget to see. I keep thinking:

He entered. No light behind his frame. Black and square. He sat on the bed. He was silent for a second. I smelled it on him. It roiled off his forehead. It heated his clothing. He emanated crimson like the dull red of an iron spit. He told me what he did. His hands were steady, dark and knuckled.

He told me what he did, and he then I offered him a kiss and he took it.

I feel the inside of my body as if my organs have been coated in Clorox. I feel suddenly very small. My hands have turned into loose fists. I hear nothing. I shake a little, and I try to stiffen a bit to stop.

                “I” he swallowed, “I did something.”

                “What did you do,” I said. It was not a question.

                He was silent. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He did not look at me. His body was completely still. I watched the muscles around his mouth shift.

                “I got angry,” he said. He paused.

                 I knew he wasn’t done but I spoke anyway. I didn’t want him to finish. “I know Barry,” I said. And then, like an idiot: “I know you get angry sometimes.”

                I watched him bristle and I felt something shrink in me, like prey. I watched him form and reform the words in his mouth. I watched him struggle. He shut his eyes. He opened them. he remained as still as stone. He never looked at me. He remained in control.

                “I killed—57—57,” his voice broke and his words chattered, “I killed about 57 people tonight.”

        I seemed to slide, as if the room was growing larger. I swayed. My hearing dulled. I seemed to watch myself watching.

        And then I got on my fucking knees.

        and I wrapped his killing hands around me.

Barry comes out of the bathroom. I look at him. His eyes are softened and earnest even with the crease in his brow. They look like frightened eyes. He holds his hands limp at his sides. He looks back at me like he’s pleading with me. Like he holds a string between us. Like he holds me at gunpoint. I can not look away.

He's paces away. Whenever he wants to, he can join me on the bed and he can kiss me, but I won’t let him. If he comes near me I’ll scream. If he touches me I’ll kill him.

He sits near me on the bed. So close I can feel the dampness of his skin from the shower.

He places a brief hand on my shoulder.

I let him.

I sit quietly and listen to him as he goes to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Does the loved one take on guilt assuaged through their affection? Probably not. But they're gonna feel a type of way about it! please let me know if you'd like me to write more :)


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